Now he stuck a slender cigarillo between his lips, but he did not light it. He never lit them. The flash of a match or the slightest scent of tobacco smoke would also give a man away, and he had learned from the Santee Sioux that he must move as silently as a spirit—kill and be gone. No wonder the Mexicans averted their eyes and crossed themselves as he rode past.
Hours later, Diablo decided he would have a drink and moved toward the club car. Balancing lightly in his moccasins as the train rumbled and click-clacked along the rails, he was acutely aware of each man he passed, sensing whether each was a threat or not. One or two eyed him, hands fidgeting nervously, as if thinking of being the one who killed the infamous Diablo, but each seemed to think twice and let him pass unchallenged.
In the club car, five men hunched over a table playing cards. Diablo paused in the doorway, looking them over. Then slowly the conversation ceased as each turned to look at him.
“Good God, look at his face!” the big, unshaven one muttered. He had red hair, and freckles showed through the balding spots.
“Be quiet, Buck,” warned a pudgy one with missing teeth, and a greasy ponytail of brown hair. “You want to die before you ever get to Wyoming?”
“But he looks like a monster.”
Nobody else said anything, waiting to see if the newcomer would take offense, but Diablo pretended he had not heard the remark. If he killed or challenged everyone who commented on his scarred face, his six gun would never be in its holster. Instead, he walked softly to the small bar and addressed the black waiter. “Beer.”
He felt the gaze of the others on his back, but he ignored them.
“Hey,” the one called Buck asked, “you got a big rattlesnake hatband and rattles on that Stetson. You kill it yourself?”
Diablo nodded as he took his beer and moved across the scarlet carpet to a comfortable chair with its back against a wall and sat down. Play at the poker table seemed suspended.
“Hell,” snorted a short man in a derby hat, “it ain’t no big thing to kill a giant rattler. Anyone can shoot them.”
Diablo drilled him with his hard stare. “I didn’t shoot it. When it struck at me, I put my foot on its head and killed it with my knife.”
The man with the ponytail raised his bushy eyebrows, and the light reflected off the silver conchos on his leather vest. “Man has to be fast as greased lightnin’ to kill a snake that way.”
Diablo didn’t answer, and he knew they all stared at his rattler hatband with the dozen rattles still attached. Now he took out a fresh cigarillo, stuck it in his mouth, and gazed out the window.
“Hey, half-breed, you need a light?” The one called Buck half rose from his chair, his voice challenging. He wore big spurs, and when he moved, they rattled like the tin pans on a peddler’s cart.
The others tried to shush him.
Diablo was in no mood to kill someone today. He merely looked at the challenger, dark eyes glowering, and the man sat down suddenly.
“Well, boys,” Buck huffed, his dirty, freckled hands as nervous as his unshaven face, “let’s get this game goin’, shall we?”
Diablo watched the country gliding past the train windows for a long moment. They were only hours from Wyoming, and he was weary of the long trip. He reached for a newspaper on the nearby table. Cimarron Durango had taught him to read, and that made up for his loneliness. The others raised their heads and watched him as if astounded that a gunfighter was reading, then returned to their poker game.
Sunny sat between her father and Hurd Kruger as Hurd drove the buggy along the dusty road toward the train station in the town of Casper. Early spring flowers now bloomed along the way and in the fields where hundreds of cattle grazed.
“Thank you, Mr. Kruger, for inviting me along,” she said politely, looking up at him. He was a big, beefy man with yellow teeth that he sucked constantly. His hair and mustache were coal black, and when he sweated, little drops of dye ran down the sides of his ruddy face.
“Now, Sunny, dear, you ought to at least call me Hurd. I’m not really your uncle.”
The way he looked at her made her feel uneasy. He’d been looking at her that way ever since she’d gone into her teens, and now that she was eighteen, he looked at her that way more and more often. She brushed a blond wisp back under her pale blue bonnet. “All right,” she agreed and looked over at her father. Swen Sorrenson did not look pleased.
“Hurd, I still don’t think much of this idea,” he said, his Danish accent still strong after all these years.
“Now, Swen, we’ve been through this before, and anyway, we shouldn’t discuss this in front of our Sunny, should we?”
It upset her that her father seemed uneasy. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and Sunny felt obliged and guilty about Dad’s loss. If it hadn’t been for his obligations in raising a daughter in this rough land, he might have remarried or even returned to Denmark. He had always seemed frail and ill suited to this wild wilderness.
“Uncle Hurd, I mean Hurd, why are we going to town?” she asked.
“Business. The Stock Growers Association business. You know I am the president. But don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, Sunny—you can go shoppin’ while your dad and I tend to it.”
That didn’t account for the unhappy look in Swen’s pale blue eyes, but she decided not to ask any more questions. A trip to a big town was a rare treat for a ranch girl.
They were approaching the town, and her excitement built. In the distance, she heard the distinctive wail of a train whistle. “Oh, a train! Who do you suppose is coming in?”
Her father started to say something, then closed his mouth.
“Some men,” Hurd said, sucking his teeth, “part of the cattlemen’s business.”
They came into town on the main road and headed toward the train station. Others were gathering, too. The arrival of a train in this small, isolated town was big news.
They pulled into the station, and Hurd got down and tied the horse to the hitching rail. Then he came around to help Sunny out of the buggy, but her father got there first.
Hurd frowned. “Now, Sunny, dear, you go along and shop. Your dad and I and some of the other members will meet the train.”
“But it’s so exciting!” she protested, shaking the dust from her pale blue cotton dress and readjusting her skewed bonnet, “I want to see who’s getting off.”
“Next year,” Swen said to her with a smile, “maybe you will ride the train to Boston and go to college.”
Hurd frowned. “Aw, don’t put such highfalutin ideas in her head, Swen. Maybe she’ll want to get married instead. There ain’t much need for a ranch wife to get an education.”
Swen looked like he might disagree, but instead, pulled his Stetson down over his sparse hair as pale as Sunny’s and turned toward the station.
The crowd of curious onlookers was growing on the platform as the trio joined them. In the distance, Sunny could see the smoke from the engine and hear the whistle as it chugged toward the town.
“Casper! Coming into Casper!” The conductor walked up and down the aisle and into the next car, “Casper next stop!”
On the sidewalk near the station, Sunny Sorrenson smiled at her father. “Oh, Dad, I never saw a train up close!”
“Yes, dear.” Swen smiled back at her with eyes as blue as hers. “Hurd’s been expecting it.”
“Yep, this is a special train.” Hurd walked toward them, smiling. “Now we’ll get some action.”
“What’s going on?” Sunny smiled up at him. She was petite next to the big man.
“Now, sweetheart, never mind.” Hurd paused in sucking his yellow teeth and nodded. “It’s just cattle business—nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”
“All right, Uncle Hurd.” She saw a slight look of worry pass over her father’s tanned face. He didn’t often disagree with Hurd Kruger, their neighbor from the big K Bar ranch, especially since Hurd held the mortgage on their small spread and
had been extra nice to them.
The train pulled into the station, puffing and blowing acrid smoke. People started gathering on the platform. The train arrival was always a big event in town. The three of them walked to the station in time to see the conductor step down and begin unloading baggage. After a moment, the passengers began to disembark. They were all men—tough-looking, weathered men, all wearing gun belts. The newcomers looked over the crowd, not smiling, then strode to the stock car, started unloading horses.
Sunny shielded her pale eyes from the sun. “Look at all those cowboys. Do you think they’ll be able to find work here? I thought there were plenty in the area.”
“Uh,” her father cleared his throat, “Hurd brought them in.”
“Be quiet, Swen,” the other man snapped; then he smiled at her and said, “Now, Sunny, dear, why don’t you run along and do some shopping? We men have things to discuss.”
There was something wrong here, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was. There must be almost twenty-five or thirty of these tough-looking cowboys milling about on the platform, gathering up their carpetbags and unloading their horses.
A tall, straight man with a mustache got off the train and strode over to them, smiling. “Well, Mr. Kruger, I brought them. Handpicked them, too, twenty-five or so of the best from Texas.”
“Shut up, Canton,” Hurd said, glancing at her. “We’ll talk later.”
She felt the men were withholding something because of her, but she was always obedient, as was expected of a young lady, so she walked away down the platform as Canton, Dad, and Hurd went to meet some of those men. They gathered and began to talk as she looked up at the train.
Then one final man stepped into the doorway of the railcar, looking about as if checking out the landscape. He caught her attention because he was so different from the others—taller and darker. He was dressed all in black, his Stetson pulled low over his dark face, and he wore moccasins instead of boots. From here, she could see the left side of his face, and he was handsome, with dark eyes and just wisps of very black hair showing beneath his hat. A half-breed, she thought. Unlike the others, he wore no silver conchos or spurs, and his pistol and gun belt were very plain and worn low and tied down. This was no ordinary cowboy, she realized with a sudden interest.
At that point, he turned his face toward her, and she took a deep breath and stepped backward in shock. While the left side of his face was handsome, the right side was scarred and twisted. “Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered, trying not to stare but unable to take her eyes off the stranger.
He seemed to sense her horror, and he winced and turned quickly away so that his right side was hidden again.
Diablo watched her from the car step. He was almost hypnotized by the girl. She was certainly not yet twenty, and small. Her blue dress accentuated her eyes, which were as pale as a Texas sky, and her hair was lighter than corn silk. The tight waist accentuated her tiny body, and she was fragile and delicate, almost too delicate to be in this cold, harsh country. He had never seen anything like her before. He found himself staring at her full, pink lips, and without thinking, he turned his head to get a better look.
Too late he saw her hand go to her mouth and the way she stepped backward in dismay. Diablo turned his face away, too aware that his scarred face had frightened her, and the old anger arose in him. He would always have this effect on women, always. The fact made him angry with the beautiful, petite girl, although he knew it was not her fault.
Two men walked up to join the girl, not looking at Diablo. The older one had wispy hair, almost snow blond, and eyes as pale as the girl’s. The other was middle-aged, perhaps in his forties with a small potbelly, and hair and mustache dyed too black to hide the gray.
Diablo’s hand went to his pistol as the old memories flooded back. Then he forced himself to concentrate and not think of that long-ago day. He would pick the day and time, and this was not it. He grabbed his carpetbag and stepped back into the shadows of the car door so the men would not see him. He stared at the girl again, thinking he had never seen anything so fragile and beautiful. He wanted her as a man wants a woman, but was angry because she had recoiled from him. What could he expect? Didn’t women always shrink back from his ugly face? And yet, he always hoped there would be one who wouldn’t. Sunny, yes, that was what they had called her, and that was a good name for her. This girl was a magnificent princess; she could have any man she wanted, and she would not want him. He sighed and turned his attention again to the men congregating on the platform.
The man called Canton had joined the other two, and everyone’s attention was on the crowd of gunfighters as they gathered around.
Diablo heard the big man say something to the girl about going shopping. She nodded, but Diablo saw that she was still staring back at him in a sort of horrid fascination.
“But Uncle Hurd, what about you and Dad?” the girl asked.
“We’ve got Stock Growers Association business to tend to. Now don’t worry your pretty little head—you just run on, and we’ll meet up with you later in the day. Here”—the big man reached into his pocket—“here’s some extra money to spend.”
The older man objected. “But Hurd, I give her money already.”
“So I give her some more. I’ve got plenty to spoil her.”
The girl tried not to accept it. “Oh, Uncle Hurd, it’s too much—”
“Nonsense. Now you run along and buy yourself something nice to wear at the party I might give soon.”
The girl took the money, hugged both the two men, and left. Diablo’s gaze followed her until she disappeared down the brick sidewalk and past the station. Then he watched the two men she had accompanied, and a terrible rage built in him as he remembered something too horrible to be voiced.
After fifteen years, he had returned as he had always promised himself he would. He cared nothing for the cattlemen’s war. Diablo had come to Wyoming for one reason and for one reason only: he had come to torture and kill certain men, and one of them was one of the two men the girl had embraced.
RIO
Mixcoac, Mexico, September 13, 1847
Padraic Kelly looked around at the cactus and barren land, then chafed at the hemp rope around his neck that also tied his hands behind him. The oxcart he stood in creaked under his feet as the animal stamped its hooves in impatience at the smell of blood and gunpowder.
In the gray light of dawn, the roar of cannons and the screams of dying men echoed across the desert battleground.
Ah, but by Saint Mary’s blood, the delay would not be long enough for the thirty condemned soldiers. Padraic turned his head and looked down the line of other men standing in oxcarts, ropes around their necks. Some of them seemed in shock, some had their eyes closed, praying to the saints for a miracle.
There’d be no miracles this morning, Padraic thought bitterly and wished he could reach his rosary, but it was tucked in the breast pocket of his uniform. It was ironic somehow that he had fled the starvation of Ireland to come to America and now his new country was going to execute him.
The colonel walked up and down the line of oxcarts, the early sun glinting off his brass buttons.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Padraic called, “for the love of mercy, could ye hand me my holy beads?”
The colonel sneered, his tiny mustache wiggling on his ruddy face. “Aw, you papist traitor! You’ll not need your silly beads when the flag falls. We’re sending all you Irish traitors to hell, where you belong.”
He should have known better than to ask the Protestant officer for help. Hadn’t he and most of the other officers treated all the new immigrants with disdain and bullying, which was the very reason some of the St. Patrick’s battalion had gone over to the Mexican side? It hadn’t seemed right, fighting fellow Catholics just because America had declared war on Mexico.
A curious crowd of peasants gathered, most with sympathetic faces, but the American soldiers held them back. There was nothing the unarmed p
easants could do to rescue all these condemned men.
Padraic mouthed a silent prayer as he stared at the distant castle on the horizon. The early sun reflected off steel and gun barrels as the soldiers of both sides battled for control of the landmark. Smoke rose and men screamed and Padraic held his breath, watching the Mexican flag flying from the parapet.
“Yes, watch it!” The colonel glared up at him. “For when it falls and is replaced by the stars and stripes, you cowardly traitors will die!”
The Mexicans seemed determined to hold the castle as the hours passed, and the sun moved across the sky with relentless heat, throwing shadows of the condemned men in long, distorted figures across the sand.
Padraic’s legs ached from hours of standing in the cart and his mouth was so dry, he could hardly mouth prayers anymore. Behind him he heard others in the oxcarts begging for water. Padraic was proud; he would not beg, though he was faint from the heat and the sweat that drenched his blue uniform. He knew they would not give the condemned water anyway. Their guards did bring water to the oxen and Padraic tried not to watch the beasts drinking it.
In one of the carts, a man fainted and the colonel yelled for a soldier to throw water on him. “I don’t want him to miss that flag coming down!” he yelled.
Padraic could only guess how many hours had passed from the way the sun slanted now in the west. The castle itself was cloaked in smoke and flames. He began to wish it would soon be over. Better to be dead than to stand here waiting all day in the hot sun for the hanging.
Sweat ran from his black hair and down the collar of his wool Mexican uniform. God, he would give his spot in Paradise for one sip of cool water. Well, his discomfort would soon be over. He didn’t regret that he had fled the U.S. Army; he had done it because of his love for a Mexican girl. That love had transcended everything else. He did regret so many had followed him, some of them so young and barely off the boat. They had been escaping from the potato famine, but now they would die anyway.
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